Difference between revisions of "4475/The Black One"

Latest revision as of 01:47, 29 August 2016

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Twilight has fallen over Dun Realtai, painting the sky in soft greys and violets. Thin strips of cloud hang low in the sky, softer pink than the rest of the sky, while the horizon where the sun had set is a glow of fading orange and pink. Already the first early stars are showing themselves in the eastern sky.

  The ground is already cast in shadow, and most of the horses mill aimilessly in their paddocks, or graze at the last of the late summer grass. Each paddock has them separated by size, sorted between the smallest to the largest.

  At the end of the row, on the southern border of Dun Realtai's territory, there is a separate paddock. This one houses but a single black horse. Guests and residents both have been warned to stay away from this paddock -- keep as far from it as possible or plausible.

  There's a reason for that. Bedivere usually lets guests roam where they will.

  The steward has been nowhere to be found in the castle for most of the evening; once he had shared dinner with Arturia, he had gone down the hill to the valley floor, or so the villagers would point anybody looking for him. Of course, Merlin most likely has his own inscrutable methods. He is a wizard, after all.

  Fences stand silhouette against the darkening sky, the last fence the most sturdy of them all. Perched atop it is the figure of the steward himself, seated comfortably on the topmost rung. His hair is drawn back into a simple horsetail, a single braid from the side of his head to the bronze cuff that binds his hair. Instead of his armour, he's dressed in more modern attire, beige slacks and a button-down white shirt; collar showing under the subtle, patterned sweater he's wearing over the shirt. His boots are soft and comfortable, made for comfort rather than appearance.

  He also seems to be brooding, back hunched with his elbows resting on his knees, chin dropped into one hand. His eyes, reflecting the last of the setting sun's reflected light, are locked firmly on the creature out in the midst of the paddock.

  Farther afield, the Black One watches his would-be master, standing proud. His ears are twisted back in an expression of equine irritation.

  He hasn't charged yet. Horse and would-be master have been staring each other down for about ten minutes, now.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Merlin dislikes being scrutable. It's so much more fun to play up the mystery, and it also provides a suitable barrier between him and others - the way of a true wizard is somewhat lonely, even as he's begun tutoring Eithne in the same path. And so while he had partaken in dinner - without, unfortunately, reanimating the skeletons of chickens to do battle and reenact the story of Gawain and the Green Knight - he had made quite sure to fetch some of the recent crops.

    The sensations he'd felt recently were troubling, indeed. What had once seemed a mere great warhorse had slowly unraveled into more. Appearing beside Bedivere as was his way, emerging from the corner of the knight's vision, Merlin has eyes only for the black beast in the field. His usual robes; of course - the only question is whether he magically maintains the one set, or simply has several dozen of the same. A mystery that dated back to the days of Uther himself, and has never been answered...

    "I supposed I might find you here. Though far be it from me to interrupt such a legendary staring contest. I'm still not sure who's winning." The wizard doesn't bother looking about at the world around him, the utterly beautiful setting sun or the knight himself. His eyes, and other magical senses, are locked upon the mystery before him.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Although he doesn't turn to see him, the knight acknowledges the wizard's arrival with the faintest inclination of his head. As Merlin comes around, the wizard might feel the brush of the filidh's art -- and see the mark of the Otherworld on Bedivere. With his senses active, luminescent cyan knotwork coils around his left arm, up the side of his neck, and curled loosely about one eye.

  His eyes are the same colour, the natural hues of his eyes lost in the glow.

  The knight is frowning, very slightly, as he answers Merlin's somewhat flippant greeting. "There is something I mislike about this animal," Bedivere murmurs, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "I had suspected it when I had taken him here, but now the proof is in the pudding, as the saying goes. We of the Dál Riata had legends of great coal-black steeds, smoke from their nostrils, with golden eyes alight with the Otherworld."

  "The púca, we called them," he muses quietly, "though they did not always take the form of a horse. Not unlike a kelpie, save they have no care for water, and do not drown or eat their victims, unless out of vengeance. They are vengeful creatures, though they remember a good turn done them, too."

  Bedivere slowly lifts an arm, pointing at the Black One.

  "Look well, wizard. I do not trust my senses." The light hides it, but his eyes slide over to Merlin. "What do you see?"

Inga has posed:
Dusk has to be her favorite time of day. For a witch one might then it would be midnight, etc. but honestly, Inga is generally asleep then unless she happens to need to harvest certain herbs that must be done under a full moon at midnight. Today was a perfect time for a small ride, as Inga is enjoying a newfound freedom over movement now that she has Jodis.

She rides into view on the graceful, dainty creature, wrapped in her blue-grey cloak to keep out the autumn chill. Her hair is unbound, a rare sight.

Inga halts Jodis a ways from where Bedivere and Merlin stand, frowning slightly as the familiar feel of the uncanny prickles her senses. She raises an eyebrow, noting the two familiar figures. Was Merlin working a spell? Or, was Bedivere? Though she's sure he hates to admit it, he has the gift for it.

Unsure if she should intrude, Inga sets Jodis to canter nearby, giving the paddock a wide berth. Because she's not an idiot.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    The shift of Bedivere's head is sensed and noted, rather than seen. As is the fey "tattoo" that marks the good knight as something more, the softly radiant magical energy that Bedivere has learned to touch and not fear. Merlin is aware of it, as he is aware of so much more - every blade of grass before them, every tug of breath, and every hair standing on end on the great black steed before them.

    He doesn't show the same kind of knotwork; with Merlin it's merely a sense of something deep and ancient in the world. Those who walked the land at the foundation of the world, and were marked with the heat of that great forge, it shines less as a distinct pattern and more simply as a doom that lingers overhead when drawn upon.

    "We have a visitor," he adds, aware of the magical presence of a third. But he doesn't break eye contact from the great beast; there is magic at play from him. While he does this, a hand raises to beckon Inga closer - slowly. "And yes. I do remember them; this one...when he arrived, there was something odd in the way the other horses behaved. And I felt nothing from him then. Now?"

    There's a slow nod at Bedivere's assessment. "Now, I believe, that it has maintained a nigh perfect illusion. But it has maintained it for too long, and..." His eyes widen - finally. The spell to penetrate the creature's own defense has found itself a tiny crack, and Merlin taps his staff upon the ground. The top bursts into a small, brilliant flame, but one that only slightly illuminates the area. It's bright enough that it almost hurts to look at, but it isn't a normal flame.

    "Look, Bedivere. Your prize is revealed. Inga. Approach us, but no closer to it than myself." And as the light shines, anyone who looks at the horse will see a fey illumination in them - a smoky golden brilliance, much more than the creature's own eyes had shown previously and a visual echo of the fire atop Merlin's staff.

    The wizard casts a small smile. "I suppose I see what you see," he answers, maintaining his intent watch upon the Black One.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Curiously, Inga would find that Jodis is coming no closer to the Black One's paddock than she absolutely must. While she still remains wonderfully tractable and sweet-tempered, she's markedly more fidgety and trying to crab-step away, head held high and eyes rolling, like a frightened horse.

  Bedivere turns his head to one side, though he doesn't look away from the Black One, taking note of Inga from his peripheral vision. His head turns back to the great war horse soon enough.

  The Black One still has his head held high, ears flipped back and the whites of his eyes showing. It's threat posture, tail held high and rippling in the chill autumn breeze. He snorts when Merlin lifts high his staff, but rather than react aggressively, his ears flip forward again in an expression of interest.

  "And so the creature is revealed." Bedivere smiles thinly as the light from Merlin's staff reveals the Black One for what he is. "A púca. I should have known. The other horses would scarcely suffer his company. Why conceal himself, though?"

  Those small ears flip back and then forward; almost hesitantly, the Black One takes a halting step forward, as though under compulsion.

  Bedivere eyes him, as though trying to decide if the stallion is preparing to charge. There's been no love lost between steed and would-be master, thus far. Slowly, Bedivere is adjusting his balance, preparing to fling himself backward off the fence if he has to... but the Black One only approaches, slowly, as the smoky gold reveals itself in his eyes.

  His ears turn forward.

  /Oh, thank the gods./

  It's a husky, smoky voice to match the lights in those brilliantly golden eyes that sounds, yet the horse's jaws never move. It seems to resound from the mind itself, as the púca raises his head, regarding each human with a practised flip of his tail.

  /Hide for too long, and one doth soon begins to forget how not to./ The púca's bright eyes turn from Bedivere to Merlin, and back again. /Even the Tylwyth Teg soon forget themselves when living too long out of their natures, but it was necessary./ Both ears flip forward. /This one sends its gratitude./

  Bedivere looks pensive.

  The creature seems to remember the knight is there, turning his head to Bedivere. /And this one is grateful to thee, knight, for thy patience./

  "You are welcome. However, I would not presume such arrogance as to keep one of the Tylwyth Teg longer than necessary." In other words, he's no fool. He's already climbing down to unlock the gate, swinging it open. "You may go."

  The púca tilts its head. /This one does not agree. This one owes thee a debt, a life for a life. There are a people here, like the old ones, who would capture this one's kind, and force them into servitude. This one would have suffered the same fate./

  Bedivere slides a glance to Merlin. "Wizard?" he murmurs, questioningly. Is this a trap?

  Meanwhile, the Black One switches his tail, head tilting slightly to one side like an inquisitive human -- an odd gesture to see in a horse-like beast.

Inga has posed:
Inga blinks meaningfully, watching Merlin and Bedivere. "Oh..." she says as the feeling of Merlin's magic washes over her. She's seen him do little things--lights and flowers. He's tapping into the real magic now. Goosebumps raise on her arms and she smiles.

Inga speaks soothingly to Jodis, not trying to force her any closer. She moves away until Jodis seems comfortable again before sliding from the saddle. "Stay put now my dear, you will be safe here," she tells the horse, nuzzling her head gently before she goes.

Inga approaches slowly, quietly, and comes to stand to the side of Merlin, leaning on her staff that for the moment, is doing no amount of glowing. "So that's what you two are up to," she comments quietly, looking to Black One, seeing it for what it is.

Then, it speaks. Inga bows her head a bit as it approaches them. She maintains a distance, her posture respectful. The name and story might not be familiar to Inga, but that does not matter. She sees what it is.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    The threatening horse needs but a lightning bolt striking behind him to show up on the cover of every glam rock album of the 70s. It's truly a powerful, striking image as the beast stares them down - and then there's a chip in the intense glamour the pooka maintains. Merlin's eyes narrow in curiosity.

    "A minor mystery solved, but a greater one revealed. And it is an impressive concealment, a spell of glamour and illusion that folded in on itself. It has taken some time to whittle at and find a suitable way through. And yet, Bedivere...it remains in its form, only its eyes showing its nature. Note that; the eyes will often reveal truths that nothing else will." A little instruction, but it's true - the creature remains in its equine form, a black long-mained destroyer that seems as if it might well be at home on a battlefield of the apocalypse.

    There's a long, drawn-out sigh from the wizard, as an apple rolls unseen in his hand. He'd thought to slip it to Bedivere as a parting gift for the pooka as the offer of freedom is made - and then curiously refused. An entirely unexpected reaction, and Merlin's eyes widen at it - before giving a soft harrumpf of disgust.

    "Quite," he says to the wisewoman. Inga's presence is always appreciated; the cute little nordic-blonde is quite helpful in so many ways. And immensely cute, by the way. "Your senses...might be overwhelmed," he adds. "But I would appreciate your thoughts, Inga. It is a pooka, but...not native to these lands. There are fey here, but this..."

    Merlin takes half a step to the side, to see the flank of the beast better. At the moment it certainly seems to be focused on Inga, so why not take advantage of that particular attention? It's grateful, and certainly not showing aggression - or drawing any magical power of its own. The apple he holds disappears, and returns to the world up one of Inga's dress's sleeves. Horse <3 Cute Witch. Horse <3 Apple? Perhaps. It's at least something that might help settle the beast.

    "These wounds you have suffered. They are..." There's a long stare at those injuries, now that the illusion no longer entirely covers them. "Not entirely of this world?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  /This one is far from home,/ the púca states, to Merlin, fixing those eyes of topaz on the wizard. /Thy magic is familiar, and known to us, wizard. Thy name is known in Eire./

  /This is not Eire./ The Black One raises his head as though to look at the outlying fields, flipping his ears back in distaste before swivelling them forward toward Merlin and Bedivere again. Side-stepping closer, the púca raises its head slowly, breath warm as he draws in both Bedivere and Merlin's scents. Those ears prick again, tail switching as he seems to consider.

  That great head lowers until it can fix both novice filidh and wizard with that luminous eye. /You smell like Eire,/ he says to Merlin, tilting his head to eye the wizard better. /But you smell like Prydein, and Dál Riata, and even a little of the northlands, too. This one would expect no less./

  /But you.../ The Black One fixes his luminant eyes on Bedivere, who flicks a brief, uneasy look at the wizard. /You smell like Dál Riata. You smell like Dál Riata, and even a little of the sea wolves.../

  Bedivere looks uncomfortable at this, too polite to glare, but his mouth is set into a thin line of obvious displeasure. So, he does have something of the Saxons in his own blood. Rumours had wondered as much at the court; cruel rumours, and cutting off-handed remarks. He had never responded to any of them, of course.

  "I am no kin to those murderers," he states, softly. "They are no better than beasts."

  The Black One turns his head, fixing Bedivere with his other eye. Even as Merlin studies him, his head lifts, one golden eye settling on the wizard as though to broadcast that yes, he knows Merlin is studying him.

  /Look closer, wizard. One of thy talents would have little trouble seeing./ It's like looking at tattered cloth, the very essence of the púca; great gaps and holes and tatters simply missing from its essence. /This one is not whole; is not certain if this one will ever be whole. Look thee what yonder oafs would do, for the sake of saving some labour. Barbarians,/ the púca scoffs.

  He seems to remember that Inga is there, turning his head to the Wisewoman. The Black One doesn't grin. His face is too inflexible for that. But there's something in his regard that suggests one, all the same; staring at her so long it might even be a little uncomfortable. /This one smells the Otherworld on thee, mortal,/ he proclaims, cocking his head to the other side. /And strongly. Do not fear. This one intends no harm to thee./

  /However, this one will remain. This one will serve thee, as long as thee has need of service. A steed worthy of legend thou sought,/ the Black One states, turning his head and pointed ears to Bedivere. /And a steed worthy of legend thou shalt have. This one will serve thee, until this one is ready to return to Eire, to the green isle in the grey sea./

  Bedivere glances between both Merlin and Inga, looking almost uneasy. "At what cost?"

  /None, mortal. Thou hast done a great service to this one./ The púca lifts its head, imperious. /Honesty. Is that not one of thy mortal values thou holdst so dear?/

  "Yes." Bedivere lets out his breath, and for a moment he seems torn, as though considering something important. He looks like a man caught between hammer and anvil. "It is."

  /That shall serve./ The púca nods to himself, a curiously human-looking gesture, and he looks to Inga and Merlin, ears flopping faintly at the movement. /I smell... a purpose, on thou. Tell me more of this land. This is not my Eire of the green hills and the grey sea./

  Bedivere is quiet, as though he were thinking about something very important; or at least very important to him. Though his attention remains on the púca, something about him seems distant, the light of the Otherworld faded from him. He's watching both Merlin and the Black One, almost speculatively.

Inga has posed:
The wisewoman watches Black One, knowing that it is also watching her. She Sees it, but it Sees her as well. She knows that if she lets her Sight go as it will that it will likely overwhelm her. This is a creature of the Otherworld. It has lived years beyond count. It's wyrd is written differently. However...what is she, now? Not human. She has many secrets. She's walked on the Other Side many times and walked back again. She buzzes with the energy of the earth. What can this mind handle? How will it expand?

...And what is in her sleeve?!

"I think you simply want to test me, Merlin," she says to the wizard. Inga doesn't take her eyes from Black One. She remains respectful, but she is not intimidated. She smiles softly. "I intend no harm to you either. Indeed, I hope that I can make your stay more comfortable here, since you have decided to remain awhile. I would be happy to share whatever knowledge I possess," she replies.

An apple rolls out of her sleeve. She looks to Merlin, raising a pale eyebrow.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Merlin gives a bow of his head in acknowledgement and respect to the creature. "I suppose well that it should; I have trod all those lands for many lifetimes of men. And..." He smiles, mildly amused. "Succint. And yes, we are quite far from that blessed isle. Longer than distance, farther than lifetimes...for now." Perhaps there might be a way for the pooka to return to his lands at some point, but from his words there is little desire anytime soon.

    A slight shake of Merlin's head as well as a sudden intense look are given to Bedivere - do not react, do not be afraid. The reply to the assessment gets a nod, slow and shallow. Well answered, Sir Bedivere. "There is much of men that draws from their lands...and in all, perhaps, there is a thin strain of the foreign and strange. The make of a man, though, is little measure of him." Even if he is descended from the pirates, that doesn't mean he acts like it.

    The fire atop Merlin's staff shifts, glowing a bit softer in its brightness but no brighter upon the ground around them. He looks over the horse, reaching a hand up as if to feel the beast's flanks, but not touching. Not physically, at least; there's a touch of magical contact as Merlin's essence caresses over the pooka's own. Feeling the wounds of that aura, the magical gaps and injuries.

    To Inga, he tilts his head slightly. "The world makes tests of everything. I also value your insight and wisdom, and this...is a rather special occasion. It is no coincidence that drew you here, I suppose." Poor Jodis, she's probably going to be nervous all day tomorrow after this.

    And then, of course, he does have to be Merlin. When the apple finally wriggles and rolls down her arm, falling out of her sleeve into her hand, Merlin simply maintains an expressionless face - but there's this nigh-cartoonish image that he gives her to see. A cute little black pony with lots of hair everywhere, and a cute little white-haired girl feeding it an apple, and just how /much/ that little frilly filly in her vision just loves apples. The truth is that a gift of the land has great weight with the pooka, and the apple is from the few orchard trees that are being tended to. A gift of Dun Realtai.

    Besides, it'd be hilariously adorable for her to feed such a creature. Right Bedivere?

    Meanwhile Merlin turns his attention back to the beast, dropping to one knee. "You know of us, and you know where you are. And you know myself well. Allow me, then, to introduce you to the land of Dun Realtai," he adds, pulling a small bit of earth from his fingers and letting it spill back. "And allow me to introduce to you the knight of Camelot and Steward of these lands, Bedivere of the Dal Riata." He nods to the knight, then to Inga. "And this is Inga, wisewoman from lands across the heavens, and resident as well of these lands. This place is one made of many different roads that come together most curiously, and your presence will be most welcome."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  /Oh?/ The púca tilts its head, flicking its ears indifferently at the Wisewoman. Those smoky gold eyes settle on her, and there's no questioning that it's looking directly at her. A horse it may seem, but there is no mistaking the intelligence in its eyes; the alien curiosity. It almost looks puzzled. /Then do tell, mortal. This one is curious what manner of land this one has landed in. This is not Eire,/ the Black One repeats, flicking his ears momentarily back.

  Lifting one hoof, it strikes it down into the sod, with a thud of wet earth. /No. Thou art not so far from Albion, Learned One. This one does not know the way, but this one knows that it is not far./

  "Not far?" Bedivere lifts a brow, and seems suddenly interested. "And how far would that be?"

  It's just as well Merlin doesn't intend to touch. The Black One is already sauntering a pace or two away, tail swishing about one hind leg. His ears flip back momentarily, before one of them swivels forward in an expression of indecision. His smoky eyes flit between Merlin and Bedivere, and even Inga, as though he were considering something of his own. What could go through the mind of such an alien creature, though, is anyone's guess.

  /This one is made of many things./ The observation, on the heels of Merlin's lecture about the make of a man, carries a hint of amusement with it.

  And suddenly the horse is not there; there is a swirl of smoke, but instead, it is a massive eagle, eyes of gold and feathers dusky as the dawn. Another shift, and a cat crouches before them, tail held high. Another shift -- a soft black rabbit crouches before them, but its eyes are still luminous gold, like the sun through smoke. His form blurs one more time, and a great wolfhound not unlike Cavall stands at attention.

  Yet the destrier is what reappears, cold autumn breeze stirring his mane and tail, playing about the feathering just above his hooves. He snorts, flicking his ears. His head swivels about, then, and he scoffs at Merlin's observation, both ears flipping back for a moment and showing his teeth.

  Nope. Don't touch. The gesture is clear enough not to need words.

  Bedivere, however, is sliding his eyes toward Merlin a manner that seems to say, 'I know you're up to something over there and even if I'm too much of a novice to know exactly what, I know how your terrible mind works, wizard, so knock it off.'

  His eyes are very eloquent!

  The púca's smoky gold eyes settle on that apple, watching it like one hypnotised as Inga holds it, but half his attention is on the conversation, evidenced when his eyes flick up to Merlin again. It's a bit surreal, being watched like a human, from the oval-pupiled eyes of a horse. /This one has not met you before, Learned One, but knows you only by reputation./ With every bit of conversation, its speech seems to grow a little less formal; a little less creaky, like a skill unused coming back into practise. Yet it still seems to refer to itself with the epithet of 'this one,' offering no correction to the lack of a name. /You are known to the Tylwyth Teg, as you call those of the Otherworld./

  /And this one is certain you are familiar, Filidh./

  "Novice," Bedivere corrects, so automatically that he looks momentarily uneasy. Why does a púca of Eire recognise him? "In what way?"

  /This one cannot be more specific./

  It's looking at the apple again, just an occasional glance here or there. If it were a dog it might be licking its chops.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The púca does cock its head, studying Bedivere long through narrowed eyes. /This one knows that that is not your name, Filidh. It does not suit; it does not fit. This one does not smell Albion in your magic. Give this one another. One that is not false./

  "Fionnlagh," he murmurs, throat dry. Is it wise to give a creature of the Otherworld his true name? Probably not, but the thing seems to want it.

  /Fionnlagh.../ The Black One seems to consider it, rolling the name around in its mouth, testing the feel of the syllables. The horse-like creature finally nods, dipping its head. /The white warrior. That will suit./

  "As Master Merlin claims, you will be made welcome in this land. As steward of Dun Realtai, I welcome you as a guest of my hall." Bedivere dips his head, eyes closing momentarily. The ancient laws have been invoked; come what may. "I... will accept your service, for as long as you choose to offer it."

  /Very good./ The Black One strides forward, poking his velvety nose into Bedivere's centre of gravity; the startled knight reaches forward to rub at the horse's face, more out of surprise than anything else. /There. Oh. Wonderful. That last idiot gave this one a halter that was fraying apart, and it itched so very terribly.../

  And so does Bedivere find himself scratching an itch, in exchange for one of his own being scratched. He looks slightly nonplussed about this, rubbing at the horse's face almost by rote. One is not usually accustomed to petting a sentient creature; it's demeaning, and condescending... but the púca doesn't seem to mind.

  "And what shall we call you, Fair One?"

  /This one does not have a name. The name you have been using will suit. It is truthful enough./

  The púca looks at Inga again, even as it enjoys some quality itching from the slightly bemused silver-haired knight. /You. Why does this one hear the music of the hive when this one looks at you...?/

Inga has posed:
Inga glances sidelong to Merlin, thoughtful and silent as moments pass. One of these days, she's going to end up having a good long peek of Merlin's wyrd beyond the little glimpses. That would certainly be very interesting. "Indeed, there are rarely coincidences in a life such as mine," she replies. "I will do as you ask, with the permission of our guest," she says, looking back to Black One. "I have the Sight," she begins, though she knows it knows. It is polite to say so. "May I?" she asks. "Merlin believes it will be helpful," she adds. That, or he wants to see her pass out.

The vision he places in her mind causes her eyes to widen and her cheeks to flush. A-adorable...

Inga narrows her eyes in Merlin's direction however, shoving back a distinct impression of her giving him the middle finger.

It is a good idea, however.

Inga offers the apple to Black One. "A gift for you, our guest. An apple from Dun Realtai. The fruits of this land are sweet. The winters are harsh, but the harvests are ample," she says.

Jodis is staying where Inga left her, cautiously watching them from afar. She's a pretty pony~

Inga returns her gaze to Black One. "I can tell you what I know of this land, but...Fionnlagh--" she uses the name the creature prefers, "is best for that task. I can tell you though, that this is a land where spirits do reside and are still treated with respect. There is a certain closeness to the Otherworld in this place. It is old, and we do not yet begin to know all her secrets," she answers.

Inga straightens slightly at the puca's last question of her. She takes a deep breath and sighs quietly. "I am Chosen of a goddess called Gaia--a goddess of the earth. The Bees are her messengers, their honey the wisdom of the worlds. They reside within the World Tree, Yggdrasil," she explains, her eyes growing distant. "They are called The Buzzing....and they say hello." Mortal is not really an accurate thing to call her anymore.

Inga looks to Bedivere. "Albion in near--and it is far. It is folded in with all the others and if you could travel the World Tree and knew the way you could find it again--but you would not want to. It will not be as you remember. Better that you are here. This place embraces you," she says to Bedivere in that unnervingly knowing sort of way.

Then, back to Black One to hear his answer.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Merlin's eyes narrow into a razor thin stare. Not far? This is decidedly unexpected news - but, of all creatures, this one would know. He is not disbelieving, merely surprised. "All ways lead all places, perhaps. Some shorter than others, some far longer. I suppose we have come such a way compared to your own. I myself have...spent some time at a detour, I suppose." Centuries in the earth, removed from the end of Camelot's existence and freed in ways even the wizard remembers poorly.

    A physical touch was never Merlin's intention, only to feel the creature's wounded aura. A sort of magical exam, though when the pooka shifts away Merlin steps back and lowers his hand as well. And then they are treated to a bit of a show, as the pooka transforms itself into a series of creatures. Well. Once it is transformed back into its equine form, Merlin meets its eyes and nods in acquiescence.

    Bedivere will not appreciate this all too well, Merlin supposes. But as one, so another. His hand falls away from the still-lit staff, which remains as upright as if it were planted deep in the earth. Gravity no longer affects it, though that's nothing. Where the wizard stood, an owl stands - lighter in color, not unlike the wizard's own hair and eyes, and smaller than the eagle. A moment as it flutters its wings, before there's a similar shift - and a gryphon stands between Inga and Bedivere, a cry to the heavens the blend of a lion's roar and a falcon's screech. One more, and this time a pale horse close to the size of Jodis paws once at the ground.

    As a horse, the voice is not unlike the pooka's own. /Then I greet you as distant kin, one of the gods of earth and water and of the ways known before those of mortal men./ With another deep bow, the diminutive periwinkle stallion pays its respect to the pooka. With a simple shift, Merlin himself stands there once more, rising from his knelt position.

    When Bedivere names himself true, Merlin is cautious - but they cannot refuse such a guest a request, and while there are many warnings and dangers to giving those of the fae a truest of names...there are boons to it as well. They're just a bunch of freaky fickle ffff...ellows and choose at whim which to give out. Rather like Merlin, perhaps.

    There's a gentle nod from the wizard. "There is much that can be learned...and perhaps, one of those things might be your own path back to Eire, should you wish to follow it someday." The amusement as she returns the battle of mental images is visible only in a quiver at the corner of his lips, but he'd seen her blushing - yeah, he wins this round. A victorious mental image of a truly sexy wizard shaking a truly magical rear end, robes swishing, is Inga's wonderful consolation prize.

    And then Merlin's gamble pays off - especially in ways he hadn't expected. Well now. Inga herself brings up a truly fascinating point, and it is true - Dun Realtai has embraced its Steward. Perhaps it's an echo in the land of Alaia's own proclamation. Perhaps what drew Black One here, by way of Bedivere's own travels and trades, was what drew them all - a place that needed them, and that they needed as well.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  /Yes, you have the awen. This one knows that smell,/ the Black One observes, pointedly. Those smoky gold eyes are fixed on Inga, staring at her like a hound might stare hungrily at a choice cut of beef. /Like calls to like, even across the worlds. The Bees.../ The capital letter is almost audible, the weight that the Black One lends the term. /The World Tree./ Those golden eyes widen in clear surprise. /So it is known even here./

  Oh, and the Bees say hello. The Black One dips his head, forelock falling across his face. /Greetings, Fair Sweet Ones./

  He flicks his ears forward in interest, apparently curious; Bedivere flicks his hand in a gesture that might be acquiesce. The knight's intent is clear; as long as the púca doesn't mind, neither does he.

  And then he takes the apple with a crunch, very narrowly missing Inga's hand as those teeth clash shut, ducking his head down to the ground with his prize. There's a moment of noisy crunching and a sigh of pleasure. Before long the Black One raises his head, cocking a rear hoof to rest at an angle to the ground, tail swishing contentedly with a rustling of long hairs. The horse-like creature sighs in pleasure. /My thanks./

  /It is a good land. This one will be content, here./ Apparently the Otherworld gives Dun Realtai its stamp of approval, or at least this lesser denizen.

  Jodis is utterly ignored, because the Black One has more important things to discuss.

  /Indeed not./ The Black One scrapes at the sod underfoot, lowering his head to sniff at torn turf and wet earth. /It is an old land. As old as Eire of the green grass and the grey sea. As old as Albion and the Tylwyth Teg who yet dwell there./

  Bedivere, meanwhile, is leaning so far forward on his section of fence that he looks like he might fall off of it. Albion, not so very far away? That's more good news than he could have possibly hoped for, and there must surely be some kind of catch.

  Lifting his head, he fixes his luminous eyes on Merlin, as though thoughtful. /Near, far... time, space, age. This one does not think this is the place you seek. There is something else. An air of purpose. This one thinks you have a purpose yet to fulfill./ Those ears flip forward, as Bedivere and the Black One study each other for a moment. /Is this one wrong?/

  "No." Bedivere shakes his head. "You are not wrong, Fair One."

  "I had thought to delay my announcement," he sighs, but shakes his head. "I could not have kept it from either of you for long. I may be leaving Dun Realtai, this winter, for a short time. My lady will be accompanying me. Lady Alaia will manage things in my absence, and I will be back before the spring melt."

  He bows his head slightly, pale violet eyes settling obliquely on Merlin. "I had my answer of her, Master Merlin, and she wished to be whole again. This I will do for her gladly, no matter how far I am to travel. Caliburn's shards yet lie in the earth, sleeping and waiting, and Avalon... Avalon will heal her; mend her hurts." He looks down to the turf, brow furrowing. "I do not know where to begin, but I will speak with Lady Alaia."

  /This one was not wrong./ The Black One sounds almost smug. /You do indeed have a purpose. Very good, Warrior of White. You will have need of a swift horse. That is but one of this one's aspects. This one will carry you swiftly and surely wherever you must go, Fionnlagh of Dál Riata. You have done this one a great service. And this one senses unfinished business, of a sort./

  Bedivere eyes the creature warily, before sighing and shaking his head.

  "I seek Albion for a different reason," he murmurs, to Inga. "There is something my king has lost, there. Something of tremendous import. I do not think it has left Albion, not yet."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The Black One, meanwhile, is watching as Merlin transforms himself into an owl, a gryphon, a palfrey -- the Black One tosses his head in apparent approval, mane flying. /You are as adept as they say, Learned One. This one is impressed. But you do this one too much honour. This one is hardly a god. This one is the least among this one's cousins./

  /This one advises caution, if you should travel beyond the bounds of this place. Perhaps you forget that this place lies in the heart of winter, in the worlds-beyond-worlds, countless sheets of ice and winter wastes. This Lady Alaia of yours, she is powerful. This one senses her power. But there are shadows and worse things that lie in wait on the glacier beyond./ The Black One flicks his tail, complacent; his shape blurs, and there is a cat, hopping up the fence at two bounds, before settling on Bedivere's shoulder as though it were the most normal thing in the world, tail curling about his neck. Bedivere, for his part, looks a little uneasy at being buddied up to by a capricious nature spirit.

  Yet he can't help reaching out to touch that glossy black fur, which is every bit as soft as it looks. "I have seen some of what lies beyond. I am prepared to travel. As far as I must," he adds, solemnly.

  /This one senses a great deal of conviction in you, Warrior of White./ The cat doesn't smile. Cats can't do that. But they can wear that expression that always seems to suggest a knowing little smile. /The oath of duty, the kept promise of loyalty. Something deeper, perhaps? Strong convictions, indeed. Very good./

Inga has posed:
Merlin's shifting is met with wide eyes. She cannot hide that she is impressed. That is a magic that she does not possess, and perhaps envies. Sure, she has the awen, but no one who knew anything about it would desire that.

Accosted with another image, this one rather innapproriate, Inga glares at Merlin, willing her face not to turn roughly the shade of the red apple she holds. She simply cannot help the vision she sends back, visualizing in great and terrible detail what she would use her staff to do to his magical rear end. Suffice to say its not pretty.

Inga looks away from Merlin, raising her chin haughtily for a moment. Her attention is back on Black One, who is staring holes through her--and yet his attention is still more comfortable to her. This sort of thing she is accustomed to! "It is known, yes. It is traveled by some. I never thought to see it like I do now...it is a truly magnificent thing," Inga replies.

She bows her head in greeting, supposedly responding for the Buzzing--who are far less sassy than usual and not /screaming/ at her. That sort of thing is much better when she is away from her world.

Inga smiles when the apple is taken, flinching only slightly in the desire to not have her fingers bitten. He did say he would not harm her, but accidents certainly happen and Inga is aware of the unnerving sensation that the creature might be wondering if she tastes like honey.

Which is also not an unfamiliar sensation, and that in itself is worrying.

Turning to Bedivere, she frowns slightly as she hears of his plan. "I will accompany you if you would find me useful," she offers. Albion, she would like to see it.

Now it is a cat again. She absolutely resists the urge to pet the cat. But she really wants to, it should be known.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Yup. It was adorable. First being entranced by Inga's connection to powers even Merlin is only distantly aware of, and then HOERS LOEV APPOL. Though that the pooka knows of the World Tree...perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise. Just as Merlin himself has passed through so many of the human lands in his time, a creature such as this before him would have crossed through many less mundane.

    Hrm, perhaps it might be time for a proper journey of sorts; he'd been too long in the world of men. Then again, the worlds are not so divided anymore, the wizard muses. At least the world of dreams, for now, has managed to stay behind its barriers. And then Black mentions something interesting.

    "Even now? The blessed isle is still a home for such as the Tylwyth Teg?" That's a surprise. He'd supposed that over time, the new replaced the old and the time of men had surged over the world, which certainly had been the way of things in so many other places. That there were still fae folk in Albion gives him a wistful smile, remembering a lovely and slender arm clad in samite...attached to a lovely and slender figure and face equally clad in samite...ah, that little singing crab was right. It truly was hotter under the water.

    But enough of such reminiscences, especially as Bedivere resembles nothing so much as a child leaning over a railing at Christmas Day. A gentle tap of the staff against the fence, just enough to shake it and give Bedivere a tiny start - and maybe to remind him to lean back a little. Still, that expression, what was the multiverse's term? Kodak Moment, yes.

    "Oh ho. I did not see /this/ at all." Bedivere's announcement /absolutely/ gets his attention. Well now. Perhaps this will help settle things - Merlin's half started to suspect the knight, in some ways, fears the woman who had become his Servant and beloved. Or perhaps simply fears /what/ she is, despite his filidh nature and growing talent with the otherworldly. From distant King to immortal Heroic Spirit to...a human, just as he. "I shall join you in your travels. It will be much less interesting without you around...and I'm quite sure," he adds with a malicious sparkle of glee, "that Gawain can maintain the keep in the meantime."

    To Black, Merlin returns his attentions. "In your world, I acknowledge and bow to such a case. But alone in a foreign land, would not the visit of the lowest of princes be considered a great honor? There are none other like you here, thus we pay respect to yourself as well as your cousins. And..." He eyes the magical beast's flanks, looking over the wounds. Perhaps you have suffered enough and kindness is only just, his expression seems to say.

    "Oh come now, Bedivere. It isn't as if that's me curled up around your shoulders." Tempting idea, though, he does have such lovely hair. Then again, Inga's a witch, he thinks with a glance to the silver-haired girl. Doesn't she need a black cat too or something? And there is much to behold /besides/ her shoulders, as well...oh my.

    ...Did he just /grin/ like a hungry wolf at that mental image? Poor Inga. Well...he /has/ respected her relationship with Harry so far. But she's far too cute not to tease, and the scarlet tinge at her cheeks and neck...yep. Kodak Moment indeed.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  <This one was merely surprised to see one who belonged to the Great Ones of the North so far from home. Of course, they are inferior to the Great Ones of Eire,> the Black One asides. The gods of Ireland are far superior as far as it's concerned. <And this one somehow feels that you are not from the place the Learned One and the White Warrior from.> The Black One flicks an ear in indifference, flowing from Bedivere's shoulders and assuming the form of the great war horse effortlssly. Bedivere flinches, gaze following and looking unnerved about it. <This one is not familiar with a Great One that would have such power over the Fair Sweet Ones. Not in Eire. Not in Albion.>

  Treading forward, hooves thudding into the wet sod, the war horse steps delicately around the Wisewoman, studying her with one smoky gold eye. <This one is intrigued. You smell like honey. Indeed, you even look amber-gold. But this one will ask about it another time.>

  Inga is given a flick of the creature's tail, coarse hairs swishing so close by her face that she can feel the wind displaced by them. He turns, then, fixing an eye on Bedivere.

  <One of the filídh, surely. Oh, yes, this one thinks you would be a fool to overlook one such as her.> The Black One looks almost smug as he stares Bedivere down.

  The knight shifts his weight uncomfortably, shaking his head. "I could not ask you to leave. You are a great comfort and help to the people. Still, if it is your wish to accompany me, I will not forbid it. I will not encourage it, but I will not forbid it." He exhales, softly. "It may be some time before I am prepared to leave. There are affairs I must see in order before I may go."

  Namely, negotiating terms with Alaia for keeping Dun Realtai going. He can't ask her to watch over it during the summer months, nor could he in good conscience abandon his duty. He is a knight; it would be shameful to display anything less than his full attention to the people entrusted him.

  He blows out a breath, though as expected he startles when Merlin taps at the fence with his staff. "I suppose I could not convince you to remain here. Very well. Your company and your experience will be welcome." Oh, Arturia's gonna love that. Seems like they just can't ditch the old man, no matter what they do. And then the blood drains from his face when Merlin suggests letting Gawain hold down the fort.

  "Absolutely not." Even joking around about it is scary. Look, he's even whiter than usual. "I will appoint a number of villagers, who will act in council." They'll be fine. They've probably done this before. This land is positively ancient, so he expects Dun Realtai has a long history. There's had to have been some point in that history where the people had to rule themselves before they were conquered or selected a new king, steward, or whatever before Alaia came along.

  He clears his throat uncomfortably.

  The Black One tilts his head thoughtfully, dainty equine ears neatly pointed. <Very well, then. If that is what you desire.>

  Bedivere, meanwhile, glares at Merlin, just a little.

  Come to think of it, the wizard is probably due to harass him soon enough. Few are ever spared, and he seems to take a special kind of delight in making Bedivere embarrassed and stuttering angrily. Maybe he had played his act too well in Camelot, behaving exactly alike to the king in his aloofness and coldness. Maybe this is Merlin's revenge, causing the knight to behave with the kind of emotion he never would have shown in Camelot.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Sighing faintly, Bedivere shakes his head. "In any case, you may stay as long as you like. The hour grows late, and I had best return home." Arturia will worry. He does so hate making her uncomfortable in any way. "Wisewoman. Fair One." He inclines his head to Inga and the Black One in turn, before turning and limping his way back up the hill.

  He'd gotten flung off the Black One's back again, before learning about the horse's true nature. Recent enough that it still hurts, anyway.

  The Black One flicks his tail, eyeing each of the mortals left, before inclining his head and turning to retreat to the far end of the paddock. Sure, he could turn into a cat and go inside, but he has probably dimly sensed Kepas, and knows the knight is in good hands.

  Paws.

  Something.

  Besides, this a nice big field and it's all the Black One's for the taking.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    As the Steward considers, Merlin wonders himself. Perhaps it would be best if it were just the two of them to go, Arturia and Bedivere. Then a truly splendid look settles on Merlin's face as he realizes what this means. The two of them returning alone to Albion, to restore Arturia to her human self? There's a momentary glance given to Inga. With Jeanne away, perhaps she could help out in matters parochial - after all, an adventure like that would just be the most adorably /perfect/ honeymoon for the two blonde knights. Now how to convince Inga it would be her idea...

Inga has posed:
Inga continues glaring toward Merlin. He is no longer thrusting mental images at her, but SHE CAN TELL HE'S THINKING..../THINGS!/. As long as he keeps it to himself! Hmph! Inga looks away, entertaining violent thoughts--and then thoughts of cats, thinking she really ought to get a cat or two around the cottage. She always had cats. Harry had Mister, but he stayed at the appartment.

The white-haired woman nods to Black One. Any offense taken at his stating the gods of Ireland are better than hers is either hidden or not present at all. She smiles. "I have come a very long way, time as well as distance," she answers. "No I do not believe I am from the same world as these two--but I am from a world that is similar. There are many, many worlds that a similar to each other--the world of Albion and of Uppsala has a multitude of reflections. I will come another time perhaps and tell you more about the multiverse, though I am far from the most knowledgable about the subject."

"The one known as Gaia was unfamiliar to me as well. I believe it is what the Buzzing calls her, but I am certain she has other names," she explains. Inga personally feels Gaia must be a persona of Freyja. As for the smelling like honey...Inga nods, resisting the urge to step back. "I will explain as best I can at another time," she agrees before turning back toward Bedivere and Merlin.

"If you feel I must remain here than I will do so. Perhaps you are correct and I will be needed here," she says, getting a similar thought to Merlin now. Arturia and Bedivere might need to do this alone. She would watch the wyrd a while before making her decision, and perhaps read the runes to see if the gods had guidance.

Inga nods to Bedivere. "Be well my friend," she says in parting, saying farewell to Black One as well as he wonders off.

Inga then looks to Merlin. She looks at him for an unnervingly long time.

Then, she sighs, shakes her head, and begins walking back to Jodis.